Sleep and Salvation
by varicose
Summary: Peeta and Katniss in District 12, afterwards.
1. One Year After

_Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. _

_A/N- I'm in the process of editing each chapter, so this is the first revamp. _

I wouldn't call it a lack of communication, really. It was only a lack of words. Neither of us really spoke after the nightmares passed.

Tonight would be no exception.

It is the same as usual. Thrashing, screaming, sweat and tears dampening the pillow. When I finally gasp back to consciousness, I'm surprised. Finding no bright sun or long Capitol streets. No bows and arrows in my hands. No little parachutes or children. Just a black room filled with shadows and the stirring of my bed sheets.

Peeta slowly touches my arm, as if he needs my permission to comfort me. I think it's a given- it has been ever since he started sleeping in this bed.

I realize my breathing must be out of control because my heart palpitates and I'm shaking like I haven't eaten in hours. I look beside me, where Peeta is sitting up and opening his arms. We look at each other as I heave a sigh of frustration. His arms squeeze as if to say, "I know."

He does know. His nightmares are worse than mine, even. At least my thoughts and memories are coherent- a full length mirror that I can look into and see the horror staring back at me. His is in shards, shattered and scattered around his feet, glass cutting him. He manages to piece it together, somehow. He manages to stay calm and with me most days, but there are times when he loses it. There are times when I lose it, too.

His arms warm me up and cool me down at the same time as I fix my eyes on the window beside the bed. I can see the top of Peeta's house under very faint moonlight. It's not really his house, though. It hasn't been since that morning he planted those primroses in my garden. He's hardly been there in months. A part of me wants to say that _this _is his home now. With me…in my house, in my bed, but it seems too quick of me to make that assumption.

And I think of how peculiar it is that he's here still. After all that transpired, I hadn't expected to him to stay in District 12, let alone stay in my room with me.

_I'm all he has left._

It's something he said to keep me alive during the games, but I know it's true now. 12 has been salvaged and so have we. Now this place is filled with ruins neither of us want to acknowledge. It's filled with memories. Our families, more or less, are non existent, our friends scattered amongst the new regime. So really, unless we wanted to be cooped up with a smelly, passed out, alcoholic man- we're stuck with each other.

I don't mind. Peeta is something I seem to look forward to. Waking up in the morning is better when I no longer have to face an empty house. I can't ignore him while he's here. And at least he can subdue the nightmares. As he softly strokes my arms and I nestle in deeper, I think how out souls have practically been ripped out and thrown at each other. In the Games, in the Capitol. After that, how could I not stay with him?

He speaks, finally. He always is the one to break the silence.

"You alright?"

I've calmed down, the memories of the dream are foggy and distant.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Then Peeta buries his lips into my hair and kisses the top of my head. Sometimes, he'll show this sort of affection. Sometimes, I return it. It's a temperamental situation. I kissed him last week, when he baked my favorite bread and had rested his hand accidentally on my waist while I tasted it. But the next time he tried it, I slipped away from as quickly as I could.

I'm worried that I'm confusing our relationship too much. I can't describe the tug-of-war I have with myself on the matter, though. Whether I should kiss him, let him kiss me; if the hottest nights under these sheets have anything to do with the weather. It's no surprise that he wants me…how many times has he professed it? Sometimes when Peeta is gone I think about that time in the clock arena. The peculiar way in which his hips seemed to move with mine…the electricity that it sent through me. It's unbearable…_desire. _How terribly Capitol and ridiculous that word sounds in my thoughts. It's true, however, that desire sometimes creeps into me when he's here. These are the times when I want Peeta to kiss me, when I have no confusion about my feelings.

We have a somewhat peaceful routine right now, where everything is baking, painting, hunting, and coping. I think about the ways I could disrupt this routine, complicate things for the both of us.

"Katniss?" It's barely an audible whisper. I nestle into his arms a little and wait for him to do something else. He takes a breath before saying, "Can I kiss you?"

I try not to think about it too much as I pull my head away from his shoulder and lay it closer into his neck. I feel his lips on the top of my head again…I still don't answer.

It's a wonder how his eyes have managed to stay the same crystal clear color of blue. When I think about it, I am sure the grey in my eyes has turned black. Nothing has effected his, though, those blue eyes are there even under the faintest of light. They are there even when he loses himself for the odd moment or two, when his mind wars with itself for familiarity and sanity. He has beautiful eyes, I have always thought so.

They close as I realize he is about to kiss me. I think I will kiss him tonight, for some reason, though I'm not sure why it's any different than the last few rejections. His lips touch mine, tantalizingly slow and deliberately. I can tell he is trying to make this kiss count for something and that thought stirs my stomach with excitement, fear.

The kisses we've shared since the war ended, maybe three or four, have been different than I remember. Much different than the times I threw my arms around him and pretended to be in love with him, using him as an object of survival. They haven't been like the authentic ones either, though. They are not the same as when I first knew I had real feelings for him…they are new, unique.

They leave me wanting more. I turn completely to face him, lips attached. I want to be daring, I want to touch and soak up everything he has to offer. The solace he gives me in this bed. I think about what District 12 would be like if Peeta wasn't here…and I know that I wouldn't be able to stand it. What is it about him that makes him a lifeline? Surely, it is more than just our own disturbing experiences. I can't help but compare him to Gale, who used to be here with me. Gale was never reaped, though. Gale never kneeled with me, broken and clinging to the last sliver of hope, Nightlock on his lips. His name was never called. Still, it's more than that. Gale is a burning warrior and Peeta is not. He is the calmness that I've needed, maybe even since I was a starving Seam brat digging through garbage. Even now, in the winter of a crushed home…he is a yellow dandelion offering spring.

So I kiss him deeply, to tell him I need him. I want him to know.

It takes ten minutes of hinting, my own shy nature, uneasy and uncomfortable with the prospect of sex. I can tell he is modest, wanting me to call all the shots. It goes on like this for a few moments, somewhere in between kissing and something more. Finally, I take his hands and place them directly on my chest. I can see his eyes widen, his body tense with confusion and fear. I myself am shaking, worried that I have taken it too far too soon. I can feel the electric pull, though, and it's hard to stifle the feeling. Ideas pop into my head of our bodies, his especially, and how we could place them together. I press my forehead to his and whisper that it's okay. That I _want _to.

Being Peeta, he of course asks if I am sure. It's not as if I have ever done this before. Like what Peeta said during the second Games tour, I'm _innocent. _It may be true, but I feel like being honest. If I "made love" with Peeta, wouldn't it be another way to feel free?

Without too much thought, I pull off my night shirt and toss it aside, slightly amused by the intense shock in Peeta's face. I am completely bare, slightly cold, but also warm to the core. I being to feel the creeping sensation of self consciousness as I remember what my chest now looks like. I had forgotten about the scars, leaving my right breast and torso covered in pink, melted skin. Quickly, I throw my arms around myself to cover them.

"They're awful…disgusting," I say, telling myself not to cry.

"Don't." He tugs at my arms gently, places a kiss on my throat. "Katniss, I have a fake leg, remember? They're nothing."

I think I can accept it, if I try. I will never be comfortable with this battle-scarred body. It feels all wrong, alien. Peeta stays attached to my lips, his hands roaming as I've allowed him. Nervous and eager, I lean into his hips and feel that he is alive under the sheets It's all so new and real, I wonder if I doing any of this right.

And suddenly, as I move my hips forward again, he lets out a gasp. The sound drives me forward and I do it again. He breaths heavily, fingers fumbling for my clothes. He wants the layers gone and I agree that there's far too much between us.

He slips his arm under my thigh, and flips us around. He hovers overtop of me, his breath coming out deep.

This is where I see him best. His eyes, his lips that are swollen from kissing. I can see him as a child delivering me the burnt bread, dripping in the rain. I can see him telling me that he'd kill for me, he'd die for me.

* * *

Afterward, as morning settles into the windows, and the sound of the new District's rebuild is distant outside, I almost fall asleep. His arms are still around me, the blankets thrown on the floor, our flawed and scarred bodies are naked. He laughs with a course voice.

"Why didn't we ever do that when we had the chance?" He covers his smile with his hand.

"I don't think we could have. It wouldn't have felt right," I answer. I can feel him nod as he strokes my hair methodically. We lay in silence for a few moments, I feel complacent for the first time in a while. The silence is filled with feeling, though, and I know Peeta wants to say something. He was always very good with words.

"You love me…real or not real?" he asks daringly. I only have to glance out the window, toward the meadow where I'm sure I will find a dandelion or two growing. I know my answer, without a doubt.

"Real."


	2. Three Years After

A moment of solitude, that is all I need and I'll be okay. As I lean over this counter, my heart hammering into my throat, my freshly killed rabbit burning in the pan at the stove, I fight off the urge to throw up. I can hear Peeta breathing behind me.

"Are you-...do you-" he's fighting to find the words. I want him, for once, not to talk.

"Can you just give me a minute?" I say. "I need a minute."

I keep my eyes down, hands flat on the surface of the counter as I listen for Peeta's exit. He doesn't stir, though. He stays behind me, unpredictable.

"We're getting rid of it," he says, and then I hear him shuffle. He makes his way into my sight where I can see him in the living room. He takes the television's chord in his fist and yanks it roughly out of the socket. This all seems irrational, but I can't make my lips move to tell him to stop. My brain seems to be temporarily paralyzed by the images I had just seen on the screen of that television. _Me, _or some version of me- clad in the Mockingjay getup. Arrows flying. Parachutes. Explosions. Death tolls. The war. They still show all the revolution footage in special time frames. Reminders of what Panem had been through to get here. Three years, and they are still airing it for everyone to see.

It reminds me of the programs that used to show the ruins of District 13. And now, they show the thriving new District that has moved out from underground. As they must, they show the struggle as well. _My _struggle. Peeta's. It makes it hard to pretend that everything's perfect when the television tells you it's not.

"Peeta…" I start quietly. He tries to lift the television off it's table, grunting. "Peeta, stop."

He huffs, bracing the television with both of his arms. I can see his muscles swollen and strained under his shirt. "That's the third time this month. I'm not keeping this thing in here if it's just going to upset-"

"It's fine, okay? I don't need to get rid of the whole TV. I'll just have to- have to pay better attention to the programming."

I should have kept a better eye out for the scheduling…outbursts and breakdowns can be avoided that way. Peeta gives me a strained, skeptical look. Then, he lugs the television back to it's stand.

"Fine, but it's staying unplugged unless you want to watch something," he says with a tone of finality. Just then, I remember that the rabbit is burning and starting to smell. Peeta is too fast for me, though, and makes it over to the stove before I can unclench my palms from the countertop. I let my chest fall then rise a few times, wondering if I should say something. If anything needs to be said. Just like the nightmares, the flashbacks can't be soothed with words. The most I can hope for is a pair of warm arms to enfold me. I stare toward Peeta's back for a moment and feel cold. Maybe I should just say something.

"Is it always going to be this bad?" My voice is so quiet, I wonder if he even heard me over the sizzling meat.

Peeta turns to face me, surprised by my words. "What do you mean?"

I'm not even sure how to put it into a sentence. "I….I want to be able to-" I try. "I don't want to be scared of a television."

Peeta blinks a few times, then wipes his hands on the front of his shirt. He says softly, "It's never going to be just show on television. The war and…and Prim. It's hurts to think about it. And to see it."

I'm frustrated with that answer, wanting badly for Peeta to be able to snap his fingers and make everything okay.

"Maybe I'm just crazy."

Peeta's face morphs into a pained expression, like someone's cutting his skin. _Crazy _is a word we tend not to throw around. Although, it's always there- in our minds. When Peeta has a hijacking moment, or on the days when I can't get out of bed. I know we both are thinking the same thing: _God, I must be crazy. _

"I'm sorry." I say.

"You're not crazy, Katniss. Don't say that. I don't want to hear that," he says as he turns to the stove again.

Sometimes, the television programs are about us. Follow ups on our stories. Whatever happened to the revolutionary Mockingjay and her lover? The reporters always say, _"Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark returned to their home District to help with the rebuilding of 12." _

It's a cop-out update on our lives. Though, I suppose, my image is ruined whether people get an accurate portrayal or not. Panem's memory of me is tainted by one prominent memory: me firing the arrow into Coin. I'm the rebel who snapped. Who went _crazy. _

* * *

That night, I can tell Peeta is wide awake. The moon is bright outside, shining tons of light onto his face and I can see his eyes open and glossy. We lie side by side and staring up at the ceiling. I can almost hear his thoughts flying around in the room with the early summer insects. I try to be patient, waiting for him because I know he will blurt something out sooner or later. He always does.

"I lost my mind," he says. It's so definitive, so sad that I turn on my side to press my lips against his forehead.

"Yeah, but you found it again," I whisper, thinking about the games of "Real or not Real".

Peeta takes a long, deep breath in. "It still goes wandering from time to time."

"I know what you mean," I say. "We ought to get a leash for that thing." I don't know why I'm trying to be funny. Maybe it's too much tension. Peeta laughs anyway.

Then we just let the bedroom fill with silence and breathing and a pucker of the lips and the ruffling of the sheets and just about everything feels normal for a few minutes. A few minutes where we are just another recklessly in love, young, happy couple in their bed and we don't have to worry about being crazy.

Tomorrow could bring all sorts of brand new horrors, but we don't let it muddle the few moments of clarity.

And a few minutes a night is plenty enough, I think.


	3. Six Years After: Part 1

His fingers on my skin are much less clumsy than they used to be, but I guess, after six years, he's be quite used to this body. He knows where to leave his hands, so that I can feel his pulse pushing against my hip as it increases. And more importantly, he knows just where to _not _touch me. Over top specific scars that can't be acknowledged. Though I sometimes wonder what it would feel like to have him touch that tissue that never goes away. If it would hurt as much to have them touched as it does to think about them.

We lay side by side in the meadow, where no one else in the district ever seems to go. His fingers have already unbuttoned my shirt, leaving my chest cold against the breeze. I'm not about to let him undress me completely here, in broad daylight, but it feels nice having a layer off.

Peeta's head falls against my shoulder and his hand crawls down my arm to meet mine. His hair spreads out farther than before against my collarbone; he needs a haircut. When was the last time I gave him one? It couldn't have been longer than a month. But time goes quickly and slowly all at once and things sometimes happen so fast, I feel like I've only blinked. Other times, I feel like I'm frozen inside a block of ice, unmoving.

"What is it?" he asks. I sometimes wonder if he's able to read my mind. For his sake, I hope not.

"It's tomorrow, isn't it?" I say, remembering.

"We don't have to go."

"Yes we do…" I say. "Yes, we have to."

I'm dreading tomorrow the same way I dread going to sleep on windy nights, knowing that I'll dream terrible things like the wind howling against the forest trees in the arena, the sounds that were carried in that wind. I know tomorrow will bring terrible things, terrible dreams. It's the opening ceremony for the new District 12 (though they've officially renamed it _Miner's County- _which sounds ridiculous). Six years of rebuilding and slow re-population has built up to tomorrow, where Plutarch, the new mayor, and Gale Hawthornewill introduce it, bless it, flaunt it to the rest of Panem. Miner's County: The destroyed town that rose from the ashes of a war.

I'm not concerned with the rest of Panem or any opening ceremony. I'm concerned with seeing _him. _How will I be able to look up from that crowd and see him without parachutes starting to falling from the sky? Will everything go white? Will Prim be there as the world starts to slip away?

"Plutarch said we didn't have to do anything. They won't even mention us." Peeta says, pulling me out of my daze

"But he'll want to talk about us, won't he?" I say, wondering if the new president is daring enough to point Peeta and I out in the crowd…even call us up onstage. Like the reaping, but not like it…not like it at all.

"Nah…we're just citizens. Normal citizens of Miner's County."

The name sounds alien on our tongues. "It feels like everything's changing again."

Peeta takes a few breaths, but doesn't say anything. I wish it were possible for me to read his mind.

"Is it because of Gale?" he almost whispers. The question catches me off guard; I wasn't sure whether Peeta would even acknowledge his presence tomorrow.

"Maybe…" I start.

"I get it." He always manages to surprise me when he talks. "It's been six years since we've talked to him."

"We see him on television all the time," I say, recounting the various news conferences that are always televised from the new districts. Gale holds a high rank in the new military…a coordinator, a general, some title I never felt comfortable enough to remember. I haven't thought of him for years and at the same time I have thought of him every day. When I see the Primroses in the garden. When I see the reconstruction of the new District- I hear a voice, far away, faceless as I make it.

_"Katniss, there is no District 12." _

"It's not the same." Peeta says, pulling me out of the memory. He presses the heal of his palms into his eyes and groans. "Everything was-"

"I know," I say, because I can feel what he's feeling. Everything was going so smoothly. Now I know he feels that there's something looming, threatening our peace. Peace we've only just begun to get. "I know."

* * *

In the early morning, I wake next to Peeta, fully clothed. Neither of us could muster the willpower to make love last night, so upon returning from the meadow, we collapsed in bed, wordless. What else was there to say when dread was hanging so thickly in the air? I can feel it even now, in the quiet dusk. The sun's not yet risen, light has not yet reached us. Today, the trains will arrive with the camera crews, the President, and Gale. The district will gather in the center of town, to a new stage outside of a new Justice Building. And I don't know how anything will be after that.

Slipping out of bed, I decide not to dress into my hunting clothes. I watch Peeta's lips quiver in his sleep as I make my quiet way out of the bedroom. The house always feels so strange at this time of day. It feels like it's all mine, like Peeta may not be upstairs in our bed. Because there isn't the familiar smell of baking bread wafting throughout the house and I can't hear him humming or muttering quietly from his art room. Without the evidence of Peeta, I'm all alone.

With a quick movement, I grab my bow and hunting coat and get out of the empty (not empty) house. Haymitch's lawn is littered with empty bottles and garbage. It wasn't there yesterday, but then I remember just how much Haymitch _hates _publicity. If a camera crew is going to be within a two mile radius of him, he'd of course make sure to look as unappealing as possible. The thought almost makes me smile. Almost.

By the time I reach the woods, the sun is just peaking out. They're quiet today, I notice as I strain to hear the sound of leaves and bushes moving. Any noise from animals is hidden deeper, and I don't feel very much like climbing through all the brambles or struggling up trees to find my kill. I'm hunched behind a tree, waiting for the rabbit in my sight to hop just to the left. The moments before a kill are the calmest, I find. When I can slow my breathing, clear my head, focus only on the weight of the bow in my hands and the tight pull of my fingers. The rabbit jumps to the left just as my arrow pierces it's neck. It falls to the ground, soundlessly. And then behind me, I hear him say,

"Nice shot, Catnip."


	4. Six Years After: Part 2

"I-" And then I stop because I realize that there's no way I am ready to talk yet. I have to let the _sight _of him sink in. How is it that he's here? Right here? Right in these woods (our woods).

He's just as tall, just as dark, though his skin seems different somehow and I know that it must have something to do with sunshine. His hair is different, too. Not as long as it once was- but not chopped off completely. None of this surprises me. It's something else in his face that I didn't imagine, that I didn't pick up when glimpsing him in the television conferences. I can see, even in this dull light and tree coverage, that he's lost they youth in his face.

There's a certain age about him, without any wrinkles or grey hairs to show for. But he's older somehow, than I could have ever imagined.

"You-" I try again, but I fail. He interrupts me.

"The train came in last night, late. Plutarch wanted to avoid crowds."

And then I can see Prim's face etched so deeply into my thoughts, I think it will stay there forever. I see him and Betee and their war toys. I think of Prim dying and it hurts like I feared it would.

I can see our past trying to catch up with me now. Two hunters, two starving Seam brats, miner's children. It hurts, it hurts and I can't keep looking at him, but I do. _Gale, _I want to shout, _Gale, get away from me._

"I thought maybe you'd be here," he says. I want to avert my eyes from him. I can't, though, I have to keep staring at his old face. I can't (I have to).

Gale finally moves out of my line of vision and toward the dead rabbit I had shot just moments ago. Or was it hours? My eyes are fixed on the spot where he was and I find myself feeling relived and burned now that I'm not staring at him. I can hear the soft sound of his pocket knife switching open. I can hear him tearing the skin and fur from the rabbit.

"You didn't really want to see me, did you?" he finally asks. This is where I'm supposed to turn and look at him, but I find that really can't do it.

"I'm just surprised, that's all," I manage to keep my voice steady, somehow.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah. Sorry." And it stings to hear that word. _Sorry_.

"Haven't seen you- it's been-" I try, not even knowing what I want to say.

"Six years?"

My back is turned, but I feel the weight of those words hitting me in the chest. "Six years," I say and I feel guilt twisting in my stomach. "I should have called."

"Me too.," he replies. And I'm not sure what else there is to say. After a few moments, I hear the leaves around him rustle and I know he's walking back toward me. This time, I do look up. He's holding out the arrow that had been in the rabbit's body. There's blood on his hands. Rabbit's blood. Prim's blood.

_No, _I think. _He didn't know, he didn't know. _

Gale bends down toward me and pushes the arrow back into my hands. The blood is smeared onto me now. I finally look up into those Seam eyes that are still the same color, no matter what district he's been living in. They're pained, just as full of emotion as I'm sure mine are.

"I-" he starts and I think I know what he's going to say. "I'm so so-"

"Don't, Gale." I can only forgive him slowly, as mine and Peeta's lives carefully fold back into some kind of normal shape. I don't need the words, though. I don't want them.

"Okay," he says calmly. His bloody hands are still on top of mine, and I wish he would step back from me. I can't bring myself to jerk away, though. After a quiet moment, he leans back on his legs and I am able to stow the bloody arrow back into my sheath.

"How's Peeta?" he asks and at the mention of his name, I start to feel all wrong about reuniting with Gale while he's asleep at home, unaware.

"Still sleeping at home," I say, like I need to reassure myself that he's not going to come loudly through the bushes to catch Gale and I cleaning this game.

"Home?" Gale asks, surprised. I immediately regret having mentioned Peeta's whereabouts. He's sleeping at home, our home, in our bed, the bed we sleep in together, the bed we stay awake in together.

"In Victor's Village. Still," I say.

Gale stands up, then, and takes a cloth out of my game bag. As he walks back over to the cleaned rabbit, he says, "I'm glad you ended up with him."

I don't really know what to say to that. The rough waters between Gale and I are calming right now. I can almost forget about Prim's death. I can almost forget about the years of silence. I can almost forget that he once told me he loved me.

"What about you?" I hope he can tell what I'm implying.

He chuckles slightly and I can catch a glimpse of that old, familiar grin. Then he lifts up his left hand that he's just cleaned off and I see the ring that I didn't notice before under the blood.

"Married? You're married?" I say, not meaning to sound so shrill. If I had any image of Gale at all, it was as a dedicated, hard fighting military machine. Not a family man or a romantic.

"It wasn't that long ago. I would have called," he breaks off for a moment, because I think that we both know that no such call would have been made either way. "But we were keeping it quiet."

"We?" I finally ask. I have an image, for some reason, of a Seam woman. Not unlike me, but maybe less dangerous than I see myself.

"Johanna." he says, wrapping the cleaned game into the cloth.

"Johanna?"

"Well, we were in the same unit for a while,"

"She didn't seem like the marrying type." I say.

"What about you and Peeta?" he's asking me if I'm married or not. Suddenly, I feel much younger than two years to him.

"Not officially," I say. The idea has crossed my mind more times than one, but I still can't see it completely. All those times I swore that I would never get married, never bring a child into the world- I was serious. The thought still scares me. But part of me thinks, if stubborn Johanna can give into it…

Gale stands up and wipes the rest of the blood off onto his pants, tucks his now clean knife back into his pocket. He passes the cleaned rabbit to me and says, "You ought to be."

I take the game from him, marveling at how out-of-body this whole conversation feels.

"I have to get back to the Inn. They'll want to pretty me up for the show," he says, a little bitter. I nod, knowing all too well how irritable it is to be used for public sympathy. They want Gale at the opening ceremony because he's the only Government official from District 12. He gives me a strange, warm smile that's full of thoughts and goodbyes.

"You're still the quickest at cleaning the game," I say quietly.

"You're still the best shot." he says.

I wait for him to disappear in the trees before I gather my things. Slowly, I pack away the rabbit and sling my bow and arrows behind me. My hands are shaking, perhaps from the whole conversation, perhaps from the amount of time I held my breath. Though, it feels like someone has cleaned away a layer of grime off a window I'm looking out of.

I make it to the fence (which is now only six feet high and has a working latch) and stop to rest my hand against a nearby tree. I sob for Gale, for Prim, for the bombs. I sob because I miss Peeta's warmth, standing here in the cold forest. I want to sleep against him and wake up in the afternoon. In a few hours, this morning could feel like just a foggy memory. My shaky legs can't bring me home fast enough.

The house is still eerily quiet, but I don't distress for Peeta. Usually it feels like he's not here at all, in the quiet. But as I climb the stairs, I can see odd things in my peripheral vision that I didn't notice before. Like Peeta's sketch pad on the dining table. Or the residue of yellow frosting on the countertop. Things that wouldn't be here if Peeta wasn't up the stairs, asleep.

As I climb, I throw off my sweaty hunting coat and pyjamas so that by time I'm tucking myself in beside him, I'm naked.

He wakes up with a bit of a jolt when I rest against him. He looks at me, his brow knitted in confusion. I rest my forehead against his before heaving myself onto him.

"Come here," I say, wanting to cry again. Peeta's lips twitch as he takes my torso into his hands and turns me under him. His eyes are full of everything I love to see. I remember a time when all the love and affection and attachment that I saw in those eyes was something I feared. Something that made me feel guilty. Now, I could bathe in it. His hands grab and caress and squeeze as I try to rip off his clothes, impatiently. He presses against me so that there's no air between us.

I kiss every place on his neck and face until finally, he's inside me. It's a feeling I will never truly get used to, but it's something I embrace. He smooths away the hair from my face, softly pushing, softly breathing until his eyes close. I let mine shut as well, feeling him blindly. His hair between my fingers. Both our hands between our thighs as he moves steadily. I focus on the sounds he makes, vulnerable, sharp, inhibited. I feel tethered to him like this.

Everything goes on faster and I feel myself confused as to _how _I could ever question how much I love him. When faced next to Gale, how could I have ever not chosen Peeta? In the first arena, when we were huddled together in that cave. Before the Quell, when I vowed to save him because he was my _friend. _It seems preposterous that I could have not wanted him.

Peeta opens his eyes just as my body convulses under him. I'm silent, letting myself feel everything and I can see in his face that Peeta is there, too. His eyes bare into mine as he comes with a gasp. I cling to him, catching the moment between our bodies and holding it there until he collapses on top of me. Our breath is coming out ragged, in unison as his forehead burrows into my shoulder.

"Hell of a wake up call," he says, muffled. I smile and roll him over so that I can sprawl across his chest, the way we normally do.

* * *

In the town square, the scarce population of the new district is gathered, sitting in rows of chairs, facing a new stage attached to a new Justice Building. In the crowd, there are plenty of Government officials, some of them still wearing remnants of the old Capitol fashion.s

I remember when we used to gather in this square, stirring nervously, waiting for Effie Trinket. Part of me thinks that Effie might just step out onto the stage in a few moments. That I'm really just sixteen again, standing with the other children on reaping day, stuck in a very complex daydream.

Peeta and I sit in the back, behind a young family. The children make murmurs and noise, and Peeta makes a funny face at the baby who keeps looking behind him at us. Then we hear the sound of the new Panem anthem in the speakers at the front of the crowd. The new Mayor steps outside, onto the stage, and I'm startled as the crowd starts to quietly applaud.

Following the mayor, Gale and Plutarch come come and join her by the podium. She starts off by saying what a pleasure it is to be elected Mayor of Miner's County. She thanks the President and General Hawthorne for coming.

Peeta's eyes are watching Gale, while mine are avoiding him. I feel him squeeze my hand a bit tighter as Gale takes the stage. From far away, he looks like a ghost of a person, leaning against the podium. Up on the screens, his face is the clear. He's probably looking at me, but just stare ahead.

He recites some kind of practiced speech that he pulls out of his pocket and rests on the podium. I can tell that his heart isn't in this. He probably thinks that _Miner's County _is ridiculous, like we do. He probably doesn't want to be here either. The speech is the usual babble about freedom and solidarity. For a few minutes, I'm hardly listening. Then I hear him say,

"Six years ago, when I heard those alarms go off, and the when the ground started shaking, I thought there had been an accident in the mines. Then I went outside and I saw a missile dropping on the far side of town." The crowd collectively shuffles in their seats, a little uncomfortable. Gale continues, looking down at the speech. These words are not on the paper, I'm sure. "I was so angry that this happened to us, I-"

I glance at Peeta, worried for a moment. There's emotion dripping in Gale's words now. He takes a long breath.

"I never thought I'd see District 12 again. I'm just sorry for those things that couldn't be fixed after the war. I truly am."

Those words, I know, are for me. I press my hand against my mouth, tasting the salt in my tears. Gale goes back into his speech, naturally.

"Ah, thank you to the citizens of Miner's County for your hard work."

The crowd tentatively applauds Gale as he makes his way back to the seat by the podium. Plutarch takes the microphone next, starting off in a similar seat.

"Let's go now," I whisper in Peeta's ear. Peeta nods, sending me all his concern with a few looks.

We stand quietly, hand in hand, and walk to the left. Past the Justice Building is the Bakery. As we near it, Gale looks our way.

I stop, and Peeta stops with me. I look at Gale, full in the eyes, for the first time in ages it feels like. I know he's sorry, I know he's more than that. Feebly, I give him a half-smile to let him know it's okay. Peeta waves at him, and then we go, wondering if we'll ever see him again.

That night, Peeta lets me help bake a loaf of bread. I never knew way around the kitchen like he did. All that precise measuring and kneading and turning and timing was far too graceful for me to attempt. But tonight we both stick our hands in the soft dough and work it into a pan. While it bakes, we make love quickly against the counter. We almost burn it, but I stumble naked to the oven in time to save it just as a crust starts to form on the top of the loaf.

Peeta is hungry, so I carefully slice the bread while he grabs something to drink. When he isn't looking, I cut two pieces into perfect squares.

"Let's eat by the fire," I say, shivering.

He joins me there, draping a blanket over my bare shoulders. When he sits down and is still, I reach behind me and hold out the perfect squares of bread. Peeta furrows his brow for a second, then relaxes it.

"We have a fire," I start. My stomach flutters in nervousness, worried that he might say no.

"Are you asking me to marry you?" Peeta says with a sloppy grin.

Swallowing all my pride, I draw back my shoulders and raise up my piece of bread. "I'm proposing a toast."


	5. Fourteen Years After

The kids in town all run to the bakery after school in the hopes that Peeta will have made special cookies with animals painted on them in frosting or cupcakes with polka-dots and flowers. He sets them all out on a tray and lets the kids eat them free of charge. I remember a time where such a thing would be considered _insane. _When food was so scarce, you'd be lucky to buy a few bags of grain on a week's pay let alone a cookie. Now, here we are; handing them out for free. Sometimes I have to remind myself that the world isn't how it used to be. That there's no _Hunger _Games because there's no hunger.

I watch Peeta's hard working expression shift as the children come through the front door, trailing school bags and crying siblings behind them. He grins at me from across the shop, where I'm refilling the canisters of flour. Sometimes when the butcher doesn't need any more game, I come here- to the bakery instead. I used to get along fine, sitting at home doing nothing, but I've found that it's too quiet and my hands are too still. The butcher opened up shop as soon as the town was fully rebuilt and though the new Capitol sends fine meat in the bi-monthly supply shipping, a lot of the people in Miner's County are old residents of District 12. They prefer the taste of fresh deer meat over the regulated beef. I hunt whenever I can, selling the meat for less than what it's worth. But it's not really about money. The same way that Peeta doesn't mind giving out freebees. The bakery and the butcher's is something for us to do, something with a purpose.

The kids flock to Peeta as soon as they step inside. One of the girls, a short, red haired, little thing rushes to the counter that Peeta stands behind.

"Look, look," she says, "the teacher gave me the best mark out of the whole class." She wields a piece of paper out in front of her.

"Yeah, but I got second-best!" one of the boys says, pushing his paper out to Peeta as well. Peeta grabs both the papers and whistles low as he scans them.

"Wow…I think you guys deserve a reward," he says, reaching under the counter. The kid's faces light up in anticipation to see what kind of treat Peeta has prepared for them today.

And there it is again, that look in Peeta's eyes. The one that makes me want to run away, but also stay and hold onto him. The children in the shop squeal in delight at the colorful swirls on the cookies and shove them into their mouths whole. He looks over to me again with the same light in his eyes, the one that says, _"Aren't they great?" _

And I have been denying it for a couple of years now. Thinking that just me and him and the occasional drunken visit from Haymitch is enough. I so badly want it to be enough because the thought of-

"I'm going to head home," I say quickly, sweeping away the last of the flour and brushing it off on my pants.

Peeta and the children turn to me. The kids look as though they hadn't noticed I was there…they probably didn't. Peeta is distracted by them and only nods while handing the blonde haired girl another cookie. My breath might be coming out fast, but I need to get away from here before I pass out. As I turn for the door, one of the little boys says, "Bye, Mrs. Mell-ark!"in a sing-song way.

I look at the kid with his dark hair and cookies in each hands. He's plumper than I could have ever hoped to have been at that age. He's got clean clothes, a clean smile. He's hasn't got a care in the world. I imagine every child in the district is something like this. Something that is the complete opposite of what I was.

"Bye," I manage to choke out before leaving the bakery.

A few people on the street smile toward me, but I'm usually cold and alloof, and not many of them speak to me. As much as Peeta and I have managed to blend in, there's no getting rid of our past. I will always be the Mockingjay to them. They know my story (at least, what it looks like on the outside). It doesn't take long to reach Victor's Village with my head down and feet moving at a determined pace. I'm not even sure what I'll do when I get home. Hide out in the bathroom?

My body feels like it's bursting with the stress of the day. Of the terrifying thoughts. I suddenly want a does of Sleep Syrup, but there's no way that could do any good in the long run. As I climb up the steps of my house, my eyes dart toward Haymitch's place. I turn around and head there instead.

The house is perpetually in shambles, but Haymitch doesn't seem to care. Peeta sometimes comes to make sure that rats haven't eaten him alive and cleans as much as he can. It always seems to end up like this, though- garbage, dirty dishes, and empty liquor bottles covering every inch.

I find him where he usually is, slumped over on his kitchen table with the white-liquor bottle held tightly in his hand. He's not passed out yet.

"Back in my day, people usually knock before coming into someone else's house," he says, taking a swig. I tap my knuckles against the kitchen door. "Cute," he says. "What is it?"

"I came for a drink." I say, remembering that those were the exact words I had used when I found out about the Quarter Quell. I brush away those thoughts and pull up the chair across from Haymitch.

"Well, shit," he says. "It's that bad, huh?" He hands over the white liquor. It burns the same way I remember it burning, though it's been a long time since I've had something this strong. "What's the matter this time, sweetheart?"

I chuckle, already feeling the warmth of the alcohol spreading through me. The knot in my stomach loosens as I take another drink. I begin, leaning back. "Peeta wants a baby." The words taste strange coming out of my mouth, though it may be the liquor.

Haymitch rolls his eyes and snatches the bottle back. "Do I look like some sort of marriage counselor to you? Call your mother."

I ignore him and reach for the bottle. "You should see the way he looks at the kids in the bakery."

Haymitch blinks back at me then cocks an eyebrow. He opens his mouth a few times like he's struggling on his words. He's usually so sure about what he's saying. I wonder why he can't get it out. After a moment, he slowly says, "You know,I saw one of his drawings of you once, long time ago. Fat in the middle, bunch of seam brats all around you." I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. Haymitch sighs exaggeratedly. "Well, damn. It's not District 12 anymore. No kids of your's would get reaped."

"I know that," I say quietly.

"They aren't going to starve, either," he says. "You married the damn baker."

"It's not that," I say, sighing. My brain is foggy, but the creeping feelings of hunger and desperation and hatred sneak up on me. All the things that I felt when my mother left me and Prim to fend for ourselves. More than that, the sinking feeling of abandonment seeps in. My mother could leave me to die because she couldn't take care of us. Because she was _unstable. _Peeta and I wrote the book on instability. "What if we- what if we can't take care of it? You know, what if…we end up…giving up."

It's my worst fear; becoming my mother. Bringing a life into the world then destroying it. I've already destroyed so much.

"Sweetheart," Haymitch says, a deep chuckle. "You led a goddamn revolution. It's one baby."

* * *

I purged all the alcohol that I had consumed at Haymitch's earlier, but the effects still linger. The bathroom lights seem far too bright, but the steam coming off the shower feels warm and comforting against my skin. My eyes flicker to a fleshy blur of Peeta inside the shower and back to the bottle of pills in my hand. Since my mother no longer runs an apothecary shop, the town had opened up a full-blown pharmacy years ago. Some of the more Capitol brand drugs are sold there, including these. One tablet every month and you don't have to worry about pregnancy.

I'm startled when Peeta shuts off the water and steps out. He looks calm, enveloped in steam, clean, and clumsily rubbing a towel through his hair. He spots what I'm holding in my hand.

"You already took one last week."

I press a fist to my middle, the place that my brain is feuding with. The place that is completely empty, unimportant to me in every way.

Except it's suddenly become more than that. It's become the place where Peeta's baby could be (my baby). I turn to face my husband, who loves children, who could be a great father. I remember thinking, during the Quarter Quell, that I wanted to keep Peeta alive so that he had the opportunity to have a family. Blonde haired little boys and girls running around him. The thought isn't so bad.

I wonder if he is happy. If he is truly, completely happy with how things are. I know, though, just by the way he looked at the school kids in the bakery today- that he could be _happier_. I reach up and pull his face toward me gently, pressing a soft kiss on his lips. I'm not ready at all...I've hardly let myself think about it. But it's the same way, walking into a battlefeild, you can't think about the steps you're about to take. You can't think about the danger.

He only briefly registers what I'm doing when I pull off the cap on the pill bottle and pour them down the sink.


	6. Fifteen Years After

It doesn't take very long to realize it, not when I wake one morning and make a beeline to the toilet. I hurl over the bowl, consumed with nausea and fear. When I'm done, I lean back and flush the sick away, gripping onto the edge of the toilet still. It's no surprise now, though I refused to acknowledge the absence of a period last month.

I hear Peeta's footsteps against the floor in the bedroom as he makes his way to the bathroom. I'm going to have to _say it. _My stomach clenches and it has nothing to do with morning sickness. He arrives in the doorway, his face concerned.

The new year just passed, marking it five months since I have taken a contraceptive. I had hoped that it would take longer than that.

"Are you okay?" he asks. I'm surprised that he isn't automatically jumping to conclusions like I am. After all, isn't it his dream to have a baby? I can't help it- I feel bitter. There's something _inside _of me, making me sick. I swallow thickly, trying to pull out the happy images I have stored in a memory bank. Peeta, smiling, calm, happy with the little blonde children running around him.

"Yeah…yeah, I'm fine. I'm pregnant." I say, almost casually, looking at him in the eyes. Peeta draws his shoulders back. I'm anxious to see his reaction, but he just stands there. He just stands there.

"Really?" He whispers it like an unbelieving child. He comes and joins me on the floor, looking like he's about to cry.

I think he might try to say _thank you_, but I silence him with a kiss.

* * *

A few weeks later, after the doctor confirmed it, I'm holding a small, dark picture that is supposed to be of Peeta's baby inside me. It's the strangest thing I've ever seen. It doesn't look like much, but I know what it will turn into. Peeta just wants to look at the picture all day. He hides a copy under the counter at the bakery. He tries hard not to make a big deal of any of this in front of me, but I know he's more excited than I could ever be.

I enclose the picture with the letter to District 4, explaining to my mother and Annie all about the baby and not explaining anything about my reluctance. We must seem like happy, normal, expecting parents. I feel anything but normal…I feel terrified. Like I'm about to detonate a pod in the middle of a war zone. Haymitch's voice echoes in my thoughts, _It's one baby._

* * *

At night, when Peeta thinks I'm asleep, he sometimes presses his ear or his hand against the swell in my abdomen. I rarely let him feel the kicks since they almost always give me terrible feelings and thoughts, but the baby likes to kick at night the most, anyway. He doesn't realize that I'm feigning sleep, listening for his reactions. Sometimes it feels better, like I'm being reassured by Peeta that things will be okay by the way he beams whenever he feels it stirring inside me.

I claim that everything is fine and that the pregnancy is easy. I'm sure he knows how I really feel, though. Tonight, he places a kiss on the roundness and keeps his hand light against my skin. When a kick comes, I hear Peeta quietly suppress a laugh. He loves to feel the baby and I find myself wishing that men could carry them instead. How much easier that would be for both of us. It's only a strange reverie, so for now, I just relish the warmth of Peeta's hand on my belly and try to really be asleep.

In the morning, as I'm cracking eggs into a pan for breakfast, the kicking starts up strong. I'm starting to get a little used to the fluttery feeling deep inside and the fear that comes with it. It doesn't completely incapacitate me anymore. I think about last night and the sound of Peeta's hushed laughter at the feel of it. I'm surprised that I long for that laughter now.

"Come here," I tell him, waving him over quickly. "Before it stops."

Peeta, who is slicing bread on the other side of the counter, looks momentarily shocked. He drops the knife and comes around to meet me, unsure of where to place his hands now that I'm lucid. I grab them and press his flour-covered palms near my belly button. The baby seems to know he's there because it starts to kick in an uncomfortable way, tickling my insides. I grit my teeth through it and remind myself, _It's for Peeta…_ His eyes widen.

"Wow…" he says, holding back a huge grin.

_It's for Peeta._

* * *

Three months later, it's one of those rare nights that Haymitch stays for dinner. Old Greasy Sae had warned us that he had bought hardly any food in the last month. He doesn't like being made other people's responsibility, but he needs to eat. Somehow, Peeta managed to get him over here for a meal. He sits on out couch now, as I wash the dishes, taking occasional swigs from a bottle of wine.

Peeta's gone to town to grab the ingredients that he left at the bakery earlier. Leaving me alone with Haymitch. He hasn't said much in the past nine months to acknowledge that I'm pregnant. When Peeta told him, the only thing he had said was, "I'm not changing any diapers…ever." So it surprises me when he pipes up.

"You look like you're about to pop," he says, gesturing to the now gigantic swell under my shirt.

It's very ironic that Haymitch would choose to say that, I think, because at that moment- I feel something stir deep inside that I haven't felt before. A painful, strange, sort of cramp. Feeling like I have to relive myself, though I already have. I'm not stupid, I'm not in denial. I've had nine months to come to terms with the fact that _this is happening. _Despite all that, feeling what can only be the start of labour pains, I'm still not ready. I'm not ready.

I take hold of the counter and steady myself, abandoning the dishes but leaving the water running. There's a tightness and an urge to pee and then very suddenly, I think I might have wet myself. But I know what it is…and it's not from my bladder. I shut off the faucet and peer over the bump in front of me to the ground. There's a clear puddle at my feet and my worn, old, loose skirt is damp.

It's happening now…no more hiding behind the calendar, telling myself that I've still got a few months to go, a few weeks, a few days. Now, I have a few hours…until I'm supposed to be a mother?

"Oh, no," I moan, leanig against the counter until my forehead rests on my arms. It's uncomfortable.

"What now?" Haymitch says, belching. He might be too drunk to be of any help. But I used to count on him to keep me alive in the arena even in a drunken state…he can sure as hell get my husband and a doctor to the house.

"I'm about to pop," I say with a thick layer of bitterness.

Haymitch coughs in surprise, seeming to understand why I'm leaning onto the counter for dear life. He stumbles up from the couch, dropping the bottle of wine. It will probably leave a stain on the carpet, but right now I wouldn't care if he set the carpet on fire.

"You need to go find Peeta, he'll bring the doctor," I tell him.

"You- I…you… shit," he says, before stumbling toward the door. I sincerely hope he's not too drunk to navigate his way to the bakery.

When he's gone, I'm completely alone. And I'll admit it- more scared than I've ever been. I step around the puddle and abandon my skirt on the stairs as I walk gingerly up them. We decided to just use the bedroom for the birth. I could have the baby at the clinic, but the white walls and sterile smell remind me too much of the infirmaries I have been in and out of since the games. People have always had their babies at home, anyway. I've seen more than enough labouring women call upon my mother in the middle of the night with their labor pains. Peeta's already set the sheets, towels, and clothes for me in the closet. I want to take everything in the calmest, most controlled steps as possible. The first thing to do; set the bed up.

But as I reach for the sheets and towels, the sensation I had felt in the kitchen returns with a vengeance. It's different, though…it hurts. Oh God, it _hurts. _I stop reaching for the towels and grab my stomach on both sides. The pain radiates from deep inside there, but no matter how much I wish it away, it stays. It lasts another ten seconds or so and then lets up. I pant, feeling unprepared, unprotected. I feel a childish longing for my mother.

Abandoning the sheets, I take a seat in my underwear on the edge of the bed. I know another contraction will come soon, but I try not to think about it. I need Peeta. I'm too alone, like I was with a wounded leg, helpless in the arena.

Just then, I hear the most beautiful sound; the front door opening.

"Peeta!" I shout, probably sounding hysterical. Footsteps drag up the stairs, but they're not the fast, determined ones that belong to him. Instead of my husband, Old Greasy Sae, with her white hair and deep set wrinkles, appears in the doorway.

"Greasy-" I begin questioningly, but she cuts me off.

"Saw Haymitch runnin' like a madman toward town. Figured this much," she says. I'm relieved someone is finally here, even if it's not a doctor.

"The bed…the sheets-" I point toward the closet. Greasy Sae is old, but she's just as efficient as ever. She helps me into the chair by the bed and quickly strips the old blankets from it. Carefully, she lays out the sheets and towels. She helps me into the bed slowly, with a firm, comforting grip on my shoulders. When I'm settled, she asks for my soiled undergarments and helps me into a loose shirt, pulling the sheet over my legs to cover me. Just as I'm about to thank her, the pain comes again.

I shriek in surprise and grab onto her calloused, wrinkled hand. It feels like the baby must have my insides in it's grip, twisting them.

"Breathe, child." Greasy Sae says softly, smoothing back my hair. She sucks in air slowly, instructing me to do the same. Breathe…breathe…just breathe. I breathe until it's over, though it feels like a century until the pain lets up.

Greasy goes to the kitchen to wash her hands and bring a bowl of warm water to my bedside. She wets a cloth and slowly wets my forehead. I'm so grateful for her, I could cry. "Thank you for coming," I say. She wipes away the hot tears from my cheeks.

Two contractions later, Peeta finally is home. Dr. Quill, one of the doctors at the clinic in town is with him. He immediately goes to work, asking me about the contractions and the pain.

"I'm sorry," Peeta automatically says. His eyes are full of excitement and pity and concern. He reaches for my hand and I let him give it a squeeze. The air feels better now that he's here. He's a reminder of why I'm doing this. Another contraction, another wave of pain, and I think _for Peeta, for Peeta, for Peeta. _

"Well, you're here now."

I fall asleep at some point, only for a few hours, dreamless and tenuously connected to the pain inside. When I wake, it's because there's a heavy pressure inside me and the pain peaks until I have to scream into the pillow.

Doctor Quill has me prop my legs up. For an hour, the most intense waves of pain crash through me, making me throw up all my dinner, making me crazy.I can feel it- the baby, and my body purging it from me. Dr. Quill has me push for a while, but it feels so weak and feeble.

I've accepted no pain medication, remembering how close I came to becoming a morphling addict.

I do it, as Greasy Sae put it, "the old fashioned way".

Peeta lets me squeeze his hand so tight, I'm sure I've fractured every bone in it.

And I push when they tell me to.

The pain…it's more than I've ever known. Worse than the horrors of the arena. Worse than the bomb that burnt away half my body. It hurts so much, I can't scream.

"Bare down now, girl," Greasy Sae's firm, comforting voice tells me as the pain comes again. I listen to her because I know it's almost over. I ignore the doctor's voice and focus on Sae's. Peeta whispers beside me, a mixture of _I love you _and _I'm sorry's. _It comes suddenly, without me even knowing that this push would be the last one. But I feel her leave me, leave the home she put up inside me in that one gust of power. It all happens very suddenly. Very quickly, the doctor sticks something in her mouth to suction out fluid. He tells us she's a girl and then he's handed her to me. The weight in my arms is strange, something I don't think I could ever picture in my head, though I had been thinking about this moment for a while.

She is wet and blue-ish and and small and warm. We all hear the my baby's first cry. It's the first time I've let myself think it; my baby, our baby. She isn't just thing that was inside me, she is a baby and I can see it now in her ten toes and fingers, hear it in her little hiccups and wails.

I've forgotten about Peeta. Not wanting to tear my eyes away from her, I press my hands to her back, feeling the soft, wet skin. I look up. His cheeks are wet, running with tears, he's in awe. We don't need to focus on each other. Her cries lower to a whimper and I try to touch as much of her as possible. I look at her toes and the way her limbs sprawl out against my chest. She's sweet…she's more than that. She's more than what I can describe.

I think I hear the doctor asking Peeta to cut the cord, but I pay no attention. I think I feel a sloppy kiss from Greasy Sae on my forehead, but I can barely tell. It was very quick that I had her inside me and then in front of me. I can't wrap my head around it, even now. I press a kiss to her wet, wrinkly forehead. I don't think I could ever abandon or hurt this little, helpless thing.

Peeta comes back to my side and I feel the overwhelming need to share it with everyone in the room. I look right at him and say, "Look at her…"

Peeta laughs, trying to wipe away the rest of the tears on his cheeks. "I know."

* * *

Later, the doctor leaves, telling me to rest and assuring us that everything is fine. Sae cleans up everything- getting rid of the sheets and even cleaning the floor where my water broke. When the sun starts to come up, she kisses Peeta on the cheek and then bends down to my baby and kisses her on her soft, sleeping cheek as well. I wrap my tired arms around her when she comes to the bed, telling her that I couldn't have done it without her.

And then it's just Peeta, me and her. He brings her to me and lies beside me in the bed. When she's back in my arms, I lean toward him and kiss him with everything I've got left. I tell him I love him.

It's hard to believe that this is where we are now.

The baby takes my breast easily and slips into her own little feeding land. Peeta touches the top of her head where a tuft of dark, seam hair sits. "What should we call her?"

I briefly consider calling her something like Prim or Rue…for the people I've loved and lost.

"Let's not name her after anyone," I say.

"Start fresh?" Peeta asks.

I nod. "Something simple."

Peeta kisses my shoulder. "She's got hunter in her…" he says, brushing her dark hair with his finger. "How about Bow?"

A Bow. Always less of a weapon and more of something I needed for survival. As long as I have my bow, I won't go hungry. I'll be safe. I imagine teaching her when she's older, how to hunt and live off the land. I imagine playing with her in the meadow, teaching her about the good things in life. She'll be just like any one of those kids in town; chubby, happy, healthy.

"Bow," I say.


	7. Eighteen Years After

I notice when my feet touch down on the grass, that the front door is open. I can see it, hanging open on it's hinges. Then I hear a scream. Her scream, loud and piercing, coming from inside. My heart stops.

The game bag is abandoned on the lawn, and I run as if the gong has sounded and I'm surrounded by career tributes, I run and she screams again.

"Bow," I try to yell her name, but my voice is full of thunder, and it comes out bedraggled, a desperate cry as my feet pound up the stairs. I shouldn't have left this morning, I shouldn't have left her here. Where is Peeta? Where is she?

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!"

My breath hitches in my throat as she calls my name, and frantically, I find her in the living room. She's clad in only her cloth diaper, raised high above the air, in Peeta's arms. She screams again, the high pitched squeal morphing into a giggle. She twists out of Peeta's arms and flies toward me, she always greets me this way when I come home.

I wait until she's in my arms, until I can smell her scent for myself and feel her chubby legs around my middle before I let myself think.

She was just playing.

She's safe.

She gets antsy in my arms, and soon squirms out of them too. Peeta gets up from the floor, and I can see him take in my fear.

"Why was the door wide open?" I find myself saying, attempting to catch my breath.

Peeta watches Bow pad up the stairs to her room. "I'm sorry. We were at the bakery earlier-"

"You can't just...leave the door open like that. What am I supposed to think when- when." Getting angry, I close my mouth and turn around. The wild turkey I caught is still on the front lawn, so I go to gather it, slamming the door behind me.

* * *

"Goo'night Haymitch." Bow says. She blows a kiss to her left, toward Haymitch's house. "Goo'night Sae." This time she blows a kiss toward town, where Greasy Sae lives.

Every night is this ritual. Bow must bid all her loved ones a good night in order to sleep peacefully. She turns over in her bed, where Peeta is sitting, and lets him brush her dark hair out of her face. "Goodnight, baby," he says.

"Goodnight, baby," I echo. She is so sleepy, she can hardly mumble "Goo'night" to us. By the time we turn out the light, she is off in her own dream world. It's hard to keep my heart from swelling out of my chest when I leave. She looks so much like Peeta, with her cheek sunken into the pillow, eyelids cloaked in thick lashes. Saying goodnight is always hard.

When Peeta and I finally lay our exhausted bodies down, I realize that I haven't spoken to him since this morning. "I freaked out. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It was stupid of me."

"It's just the door...and you were tickling her, and I thought she was screaming."

"I know." He reaches out for my hand and pulls me tightly against him. We take off out clothes, but I know that we're both too tired to make love. Instead, we sleep curled against each others body heat. Sometimes, it reminds me of the cold nights we spent in the caves, tucked inside the sleeping bag. Like usual, it takes a moment for me to remember that I'm home. That Peeta is my husband, and my daughter is in the next room sleeping.

I close my eyes. I could sleep.

* * *

Dr. Quill phones me a week later, and tells me that I'm pregnant again.

"I haven't missed a pill," I say. I can hear him flipping through papers on the other end. Suddenly, the last few weeks make sense. I only let Dr. Quill extract blood from me last week because I had thought that the sickness was the flu, though in hindsight, my body seems the way it was when I was pregnant with Bow. Morning queasiness rocks though me even now.

"There is always a 1% failure rate. Sometimes, these things happen."

"Oh," I say. I had never really considered that I could become pregnant by accident. I had only thought that these things were decisions that we needed to make. Did Peeta want more kids? Of course he did.

The panic is slowly bubbling up under the surface.

"Come in next week for your first checkup, I'll book you in for Tuesday."

"Okay."

Bow is sitting at the kitchen table, working furiously on her umpteenth finger painting. She loves to copy Peeta's work, tracing bulbous petals of primroses and wildflowers with her tiny fingers. She even manages to keep most of the paint on the page.

I touch the place on my abdomen where I know the baby is, and I wonder if it's even possible for me to add this to my life. Every day is a struggle in my mind, a constant stream of questions. Where is Bow? Is she safe? Is she happy? There are days when Peeta can't quite get a grip on things, and he must hide out in the bakery for fear of scaring the baby. There are days when Bow's smile reminds me so much of Prim as a toddler, it paralyzes me to the ground, and mustering the energy to kiss her goodnight it nearly impossible. Those days, I fear that I am like my mother. That nothing will bring me out of that state, even if my child was starving to death.

Now, another life to worry about, another body to care for, another source of constant fear, is growing inside me.

"Moooooomy...puuuuuurple, floweeeeer, roooooses," Bow sings, her head teetering from side and side. She drifts in and out of song when she paints. The other night, I had a dream that a mockingjay was listening to my daughter's songs, and echoing them across the house. I heard Bow's little voice multiplied and projected across the endlessness of my unconscious mind. It was a dream I was grateful for, because waking up, I knew that Bow's voice was not just a figment of my imagination. So often my dreams torment me, but the nights I dream of her are the happiest. I know that Peeta too has these dreams. I wonder what dreams a new baby will bring.

Looking at Bow now, I know that it will work out again.

I sit next to her, dip my finger in her purple paint, and swirl it across a blank page. I wonder if it's another girl, if it's as much like Peeta as Bow is.

"Pretty, Mommy," Bow places an orange finger next to my purple one, and draws circles.

"How would you like to be a big sister, Bow?" I whisper to her.

"Wha's that?" Bow doesn't look up from her painting.

"It means you're going to have a baby brother or sister."

Bow looks up finally, her blue eyes wide and piqued with interest. "Where's she?"

"The baby's in my tummy right now. It will be out soon."

"You eat her, Mommy?" she asks, her eyebrows furrowing.

"No, she's growing in there. Like the flowers."

* * *

In the bed, Peeta takes his time kissing all over me. His lips tickle the scars on my breasts, his hands are hot against my swollen belly. He buries his face in the crook of my shoulder as he moves deeper inside me.

When I was pregnant before, I refused to have sex. My body was foreign and wrong, I didn't want Peeta to have any of it.

Peeta says he loves how I look. How full my breasts are, how my hips move when I walk, with the extra weight slowing me. Sometimes he gets hard just looking at me when I'm changing. The past few months have been strange, our hands all over each other. Nearly every night, we toss and turn, and wake up with an urge to make love. I've given into it, no longer caring that my body has been taken over by the baby.

Peeta gasps as my muscles tighten around him, and when it's over he scoops me up and holds me against his chest. I rest my lips against his neck, breathing and tasting him for as long as I can. Sometimes I think I'll die if I can't be near him like this. I wonder how I could have denied us this when Bow was inside me, it seems impossible now. It may just be the hormones.

"Are you hungry?" he asks me when our breathing quiets.

"Yes, but I don't want to be sick," I say. Morning sickness has turned into all-day sickness now. This baby is making it hard to stomach anything.

"I'll bring you bread."

Peeta throws his boxers on and I watch him leave, hear him open Bow's door to check on her, and hear him slip down the stairs in little _thuds. _While he's gone, I feel the baby move inside me. The feeling is one that I'm sure I will never be able to understand and accept, no matter how prepared we make ourselves for it's arrival. The old familiar fear of failure, that we will fail, because our children are alive and kicking and needing us always.

Peeta comes back with the only thing I've been able to eat for the past few weeks, rye bread and berry jam.

Eating the warm bread, the baby stops kicking me. I feel faintly glad for it, glad that we can end our hunger.


	8. End

Bow grows up mixing batters and frosting cookies, painting wonderlands and portraits.

She has a way with words; she can write a song or a poem that brings tears to your eyes. She carries the calmness that follows Peeta, but she loves to play games, loves to laugh, loves to tire herself out.

Like me, though, she is susceptible to sadness easily. Haymitch died when she was twelve, and she spent the following weeks in bed with me, sleeping and crying. Her happiness is always great though, it always outweighs the bad moments.

Rye is a hunter, like me. From an early age, he clung to my legs on Sunday mornings, begging to be taken out to the woods. I feared that he would be too much like I was, that aggression would get the best of him, that he may be a fighter when he entered school.

The first time he killed a rabbit, I watched him hold the thing against his chest and almost started crying before he handed it to me. There is a compassionate part of my son that I don't think I ever possessed. He loves things entirely, with his whole heart. He falls in love frequently with the girls at his school, and he loves his sister constantly.

The children learn about the Games in school, and when they were old enough, Peeta and I showed them the book that we made. They don't understand everything, but they know all about war and sacrifice, and the aunt they never met. I wish that they didn't have to hear this history.

At night, the house is full of sounds. Soft breathing, heavy snores, the occasional dream murmur. Peeta and I rest with our eyes open, looking out toward the moon, to the top of the house that Peeta used to sleep in. We look back into our memories, these nights. It's been such a long time since everything. We have washed the blood off our hands and cleansed the war from our skin, but these scars will always be there.

Nighttime is anxious, and pregnant with mystery. We always wonder if bad dreams will come. I've got little to fear these days, except the nightmares. In a way, we climbed out of some kind of hell. In a way, we've been saved.

I turn into Peeta, and rest my head against his, hearing Rye's deep snores come from the other room.

Tonight our dreams are peaceful.


End file.
